


I Am Undone

by SitDownJohn



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Death, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 02:45:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5480336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SitDownJohn/pseuds/SitDownJohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hamilton found one of Laurens' letters, and he didn't like what he saw.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Am Undone

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is my first fic, so thank you in advance for reading it! Feel free to leave and comments/criticisms at the bottom!
> 
> Happy reading

It was clear as day. A short letter lay open on Laurens' desk under layers of dispatches. It was half-written and messy, but the message was obvious:

_My Dearest Martha (and Frances-Eleanor),_

_I regret that I have little time to write you as I have been busy with duties and tasks assigned by General Washington._

_All has been well here, for the winter has not yet set in but it is no longer unbearably hot. There have been fewer deaths and fewer engagements as we reach the end of the warm months; British forces are retreating to Philadelphia, and we, the Continental Army, are making preparations to travel to Valley Forge._

_Well, I have spoken enough about myself! How are you, my wife? And how is Frances-Eleanor. I regret that I was not there for her birth, nor now, as she grows. Has she spoken yet? Or begun to crawl, perhaps..._

The letter stopped with an ink smear. So Laurens had a wife. Hamilton could deal with that. And he had a daughter. That he left behind when he went to war. A daughter that he abandoned.

Hamilton saw red. He crumpled the letter in his hands and stormed out of the tent. Recruits parted like an ocean around him as he walked.

Hamilton grabbed Laurens by the sleeve.

"Alexander?” Laurens asked, turning around. He had been standing over an injured soldier, checking a bandage. 

"Follow me." Hamilton ordered. His voice was barely a growl, and his face was dark with rage. Laurens followed—he wasn’t given much choice by the vicelike grip on his cuff.

Hamilton shoved Laurens against a tent pole, holding him still.

"What in damnation, Alex!" Laurens cried. 

"How dare you. How _dare_ you." Hamilton seethed.

"Dare what?” Laurens asked. Hamilton shoved the crumpled letter into Laurens’ hand. “What?” Laurens whispered, opening the letter. He balked as soon as he saw the address and opened his mouth to respond.

“You abandoned your kid! You weren’t even there for her birth!” Hamilton yelled. “Do you know what it’s like to grow up without a father? Do you?” Hamilton breathed like a bull ready to charge.

Laurens was silent. His eyes were wide and his hands were shaking imperceptibly.

“You don’t. That’s an easy answer. You grew up with everything you could ever want, you don’t know what it’s like to grow up without parents! Ha! I should never have expected you to understand.” Hamilton dropped his hands and stormed off, giving Laurens one last push to the ground.

Laurens was still. He sat on the cold, muddy ground, holding the now soggy letter in quivering hands. Tears pricked his eyes, and he prayed that he stayed unseen here, behind the sick tent. His eyes scanned over the text. It was a letter from nearly a month ago, never sent because Hamilton walked in on him writing it.

After some minutes, Laurens finally stood. He brushed the mud from his uniform, shoved the letter in a pocket, and walked off to his tent; no one would miss him in the sick tent. His shift was almost over, anyway.

Laurens sat down heavily at his tiny desk, causing a flurry of papers to fall. He pulled the soaked, blotchy letter from his pocket and gazed at it again. How could he explain this to Hamilton? His dear friend didn’t sound in any mood to be understanding. 

“Nonetheless” Laurens said to himself. There was no point in sitting here, feeling sullen. He would do what he could and if Hamilton didn’t understand, well, he would cross that bridge when he got to it.

Laurens walked across camp with the letter, striding into Hamilton’s small tent looking much more confident than he felt. Hamilton didn’t even look up when Laurens entered. He stared resolutely down at the page he was scribbling on.

“You think you know me, but you don’t.” Laurens began. “You think that I just left my wife and unborn daughter. ‘Off to war to win glory for myself and damn the consequences!’ you think I said. You’re wrong. I left them in good care, with money to live should I die—“

Hamilton stood so fast that Laurens couldn’t reacted. The two men were standing toe to toe, and Hamilton looked like he was ready for murder.

“That doesn’t matter!” Hamilton cried. “Money is no object next to your life. How dare you pretend that you’re not here for glory! What other reason is there? You delude yourself.”

“I came here to start a country!” Laurens shouted, “I came here to make a better world for Frances! I don’t like leaving my family any more than you do!”

“Ha! Now you care to pretend that you love her. If you cared at all for that girl you’d be at home with her now, not out here, throwing yourself in front of bullets so your daughter can grow up without a father! It’s hell, I’ll tell you, living without parents.”

Laurens clenched his fists, his face had turned red during Hamilton’s short speech. “You dare say I don’t love her!” tears pricked his eyes again, “I die every day knowing that Frances might have to grow up without a father! I lay awake each night, praying that I will come home at the end of the day, but I have to be here. I can’t let my daughter grow up in this world, with blood and discontent running in the streets.” Laurens stopped, for his voice had become clogged with tears. He forced breath out, but it came in sobs.

Hamilton was silent. His eyes were slits. “I don’t care how you feel.” He growled, “You abandoned your daughter. That’s all that matters. Leave.” Hamilton pointed to the door.

Laurens left, weeping and abashed. He ran, heedless of the stares coming from the recruits. He ran until he was beyond the edge of camp, until he was in the woods. He fell against a tree, gross sobs shaking his body.

“I do love you, I love you, I love you, I love you…” he whispered, talking to some imaginary child. He didn’t even know what his daughter looked like, dammit. Hamilton was probably right. Hamilton was always right.

“I do! I love you! I know!” Laurens screamed at the sky, “I love you! I’m fighting for you! I’m fighting for you!” Laurens voice fell back to a choked whisper. He wanted desperately to believe his words, but he couldn’t, not after what Hamilton said. What if he was here for glory? What if he had deluded himself all along, and didn’t really care about Frances-Eleanor?

It was hours. It was night. It was freezing, but Laurens couldn’t move. He couldn’t make himself stand and face Hamilton. He couldn’t even face himself. 

Snow fell, but still Laurens sat, curled under a tree, shivering with cold. All he could feel were the dried tears on his face. Even his feet had gone numb. He thought nothing of it as he pulled out, with quaking hands, a small, crumpled sheet of paper. He kept that and a tiny, capped inkwell on him for notes.

His hands shivered so badly and felt so numb that he could hardly hold the small quill, but still he tried. In meandering, shaky scrawl, he tried to write a letter. 

_I’m sory, Matha. I’m sorry Fanes-Elenor. I want t com home. Plese forgiv me._

_Yrs frever,  
john_

It was short, misspelled; it hardly made good sense, but Laurens couldn’t tell. He was too cold, too sad. It was snowing harder, getting darker. He had to mail the letter.

Laurens stood, and fell, landing face first in the snow. He didn’t stand again; it was too much effort.

“’m sorry.” He whispered into the snow. “I love you. I love you”

>>

The found him the next morning, still lying where he fell, still clutching the letter in his frozen hands. Someone checked his pulse. Someone felt for breath. They were gone. His skin was like ice, and his lips were blue. 

John Laurens was dead. No one ever sent the letter to his family.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this prompt from hamiltonprompts.tumblr: "Lams angst, alex discovers that laurens is married and is an absent father, gets pissed as fuck because, y'know, being abandoned by your father is the worst, they fight because of it and it’s awful"
> 
> Thank you for reading and, again, feel free to leave any comments/criticisms below (especially if you notice any glaring format/grammar errors, I tried but I'm not perfect!) 
> 
> Happy reading


End file.
